


Lightness

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: (Or is it?), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Desperation, M/M, Mutual Pining, Unhealthy Relationships, twenty headcanons in a trench coat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 10:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17865704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Anton has finally finished serving his time, and it is time to exact his revenge on the man who ruined him.(Is it really revenge that drives him?)





	Lightness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Haaska](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haaska/gifts).



> My dear trashcan comrade! You know it's entirely your fault (more than usual). You Know Why This Story Was Born.  
> Anton is still a gang boss, and Vik is still an agent.  
> They work on it.

Anton knows he should have stopped at the photos that his kiddies made. Or at least, he shouldn’t have pursued the issue this way.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here, by the door of the apartment that he—

His mind supplies him with a good reason: end it here and now, and fuck the consequences. But he can’t stop thinking about them — and he can’t stop thinking about all the time he has already lost.

His mind whirs and turns, whirs and turns without purpose. His anger allowed him to survive; he spent months inventing ways to resolve this, cooking up plans. (Trying not to ask _why_ — because that line of thinking led to the edge of the abyss.)

But, standing in front of a textured dark gray metal door, he feels lost. He can’t remember any of those plans. He feels like this door is either the gate to that abyss or… The keys wouldn’t fit anyway, the lock must have been—

The keys fit.

He nearly drops them. The purple jellyfish on the chain glitters in the dim light of the hall.

He curses, wrestling with the keys, and opens the door, stumbles over the threshold — stills for a moment, inhaling the fleeting non-scent of the apartment, by the…

Vik is standing there, pale and so imperfect and still, with a white towel wrapped over his hips, his skin wet. A gun in his hand.

Vik’s muscles, the softness about his belly, his arms, his tattoos that Anton can draw from memory alone, the mole near the left nipple, the trail of dark hairs running down under the towel… His long fucking legs.

Anton glances at the gun and grins. “Дорогой, я смотрю, ты рад меня видеть.”

All these years, burning from anger, cultivating it — planning on how he would ruin Vik when he gets out — all gone under the wet gaze of steely eyes.

“Тоша.” Vik swallows, and Anton’s gaze is drawn to the column on his throat, the throat he strangled so many times in his dreams and caressed even more times in reality a lifetime ago.

Viktor draws up, movement so heartachingly calculated it almost makes Anton weep. Wrapping himself in the armor of contempt. Vik puts the gun down carefully on the kitchen isle (muscles rolling under tattoo-marked skin; Anton licks his lips). “Do make it quick. I have to—”

He kisses Vik.

He can’t recall how he’s crossed the distance — he’s is just here, biting, licking into Vik’s mouth, pulling him down by the long neck.

He isn’t punched, he isn’t pushed away.

“Тоша.” Digging hands into Anton’s jacket.

Anton nuzzles Vik’s neck, licks droplets of water off the skin and sobs at the scent of the shower gel (green tea, bought always in the 500 ml bottle and gradually poured into a smaller unmarked white bottle). “Витя. Витя, я так…”

“Тоша.”

Half-formed, half-uttered, thoughts drowned in the feeling, in need — the world is just them, in this moment, forever.

He stumbles after Vik further into the small apartment (knows, feels that not a single item has changed its place), pulls at the knot on the towel and drops it (he can pick it later), fingers flexing on the bones of Vik’s hips, so perfect; pushes Vik onto the bed and falls to his knees.

Against the backdrop of the bright day pouring through the giant window, Viktor is his revelation, his calling, wonderful and flawed at the same time. They are broken in such a way that they fit together perfectly.

“Витя.”

“Тоша.”

He takes Vik’s right hand and kisses the often-red knuckles, kisses further, trying to pay attention to everything, but so, so greedy, kissing the start of the long line going through the underside of the forearm (the pulse beating madly under his lips), following it up to the elbow, he knows these lines, he traced them in his dreams, on paper so many times.

“Витя.”

He kisses the gentle, soft skin on the inside of the elbow and drops his head to Vik’s thigh, the world spinning and tight, the air difficult to breathe in. Vik’s skin is cool after the shower, but that coolness hides heat.

“Тоша.”

He shudders from Vik’s voice. Not very loud, and without the cadences of his many personas. Just Vik, here, now, just Vik.

Anton breathes him in.

(The wild, cruel thing inside Anton wants to bite into the meat of Vik’s marble thigh, tear those blue veins and drink of his blood, tear him apart and eat of his flesh; this way, they will never be apart.)

A cold (always cold) hand touches his head, fingers trace the shape of his skull as though seeking something like a blind man. Fingers trace the shell of his ear. “Тоша.”

“Не говори ничего.”

He doesn’t know what to say himself. Their voices, their words would alert the world to their presence — to the anger that demands Vik pay in blood and flesh and bone.

Anton wants to stay without all that forever.

He looks up.

Vik’s face is unguarded, neutral — chiseled, unemotive stone for anyone but Anton. Anton knows to seek for other clues. To look into Vik’s eyes, at the crow’s feet, the tilt of the head. To dread agitated gestures more than rising voice, to look for the step becoming wider, the shirt collar undone, a hair out of place.

“Тоша.”

He sits up on his knees, strokes the thighs, leans to kiss the lines on the right side over the ribs (covering a long scar from a knife). Vik is heating up. His chest rising and falling faster than usual.

Anton makes a trail of kisses up the side to the armpit — a moan tears out of Vik’s chest, a moan of pleasure and pain both, higher than his usual timbre but still low enough to reverberate through his whole body, through Anton’s body, vibrate against Anton’s lips.

He wraps his arms around Vik (Vik fits so perfectly in his embrace), rubs his nose against Vik’s sternum. “Я тебя хочу.”

“Тоша.”

“You don’t have to. You never had to.”

It’s not about sex, even. He just _wants_ Vik, wants to be closer, wants _him_. Any way, every way he can. To give himself to Vik, to take Vik, to have him.

This man ruined him, this man caused him to be caught, arrested, locked up for four years — and yet… It was Viktor Watcher.

Not his Vitya.

He knows what music Vitya likes (complex instrumental; words are a distraction), how he spends his mornings (freshly energetic), knows his before-the-sleep routine (wash the dinner dishes, take a shower, brush his teeth, check the locks, close the windows and blinds, put the pillows just so, check the locks again). He knows the sound of Vik’s breathing in the sleep, and knows the smile that is more in the eyes than in the mouth.

He was drawn in by the rush of the chase set by Viktor — and fell in love with all these details that are Vitya.

“I thought you came to punish me for my role in your arrest,” Vik says.

What Anton reads between the lines is that Vik _wanted_ him to come to punish him.

There’s so much gray in Vik’s hair.

“I thought so, too,” he admits, stroking the fold between Vik’s hip and thigh, skin silky to the touch. “Until I saw you. I missed you so bad, Vitya, you have no—” His throat closes on words, and he surges up, pressing a hard kiss to Vitya’s lips.

Vitya’s hands come to the nape of his neck, sliding under the collar of his shirt, and Vitya makes a desperate little noise in his throat and breathes out, “I want you, too. Please. Now.”

His knees are going to kill him, but he sits back on his haunches regardless, pushing Vitya’s thighs apart, and leans forward and takes him into his mouth all the way, and when Vitya’s cock brushes his throat, he swallows, drawing him in.

Vitya’s moan is one of anguish.

Anton closes his eyes, trying to reacquaintance himself with the sensation of sucking a cock — but it’s been too long and he needs Vitya, right now, so he pulls back, keeping his lips curled over his teeth, presses his tongue to the spot just under the head.

Vitya’s moans wash over him, his fingers clamped on the nape of his neck.

Anton presses his thumbs into the meat of Vitya’s quivering thighs, shivering from the weight of Vitya’s cock in his mouth, the taste, the silky heat, the…

He shudders, trying to remind himself to breathe.

Breathing Vitya in.

It’s an avalanche of sensations that he can barely draw lines between, so he stops trying and just feels, and does what he needs, what Vitya needs.

Vitya drops his hand from his neck and laces their fingers — and another moan is cut short when he comes.

Anton swallows, caressing Vitya’s cock with his tongue lightly, and pulls away when Vitya whimpers. Kisses Vitya’s right thigh.

They are still holding hands.

“I still want you,” Vitya whispers. It’s broken by his rapid breaths.

Anton kisses the skin near Vitya’s navel. “I’m right here.”

Vitya holds onto his hand tightly, and tugs him up. “Yes.”

***

Anton has forgotten how quiet this apartment is at night. The triple-glazed windows cut off the incessant noise of the city. (Vitya doesn’t sleep well even with the slightest amount of noise.) There are no clocks to tick, and water faucets are in perfect condition, and even the fridge was chosen for the least amount of noise more than anything else.

The blinds cut off the lights, too; there are only stars glowing faintly on the ceiling — so faintly it can be perceived only out of the corner of one’s eye.

Anton knows Vitya isn’t asleep.

They are folded together under the light blanket, Anton fitting behind Vitya’s back as though no time has passed at all. As though he’s just fallen asleep and woke up four years later with Vitya still in his arms, their legs tangled, Vitya’s short hair tickling his nose.

“Are you still undercover?” he asks quietly. His left hand is resting on Vitya’s stomach, his right serves as Vitya’s pillow and he doesn’t care that it’s going to go numb soon.

Vitya is deliciously heated.

“Yes.”

He knows the answer to the question already, but he needed to give Vitya the opportunity to choose what to reveal.

He kisses the mole by Vitya’s neck. “Then work with me.”

Vitya huffs. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not talking about you leaving the Bureau—” though damn, he _wants_ Vik to, but this line won’t get them anywhere but into a fight, he thinks, “—but, since nobody knows you are an agent…” The fucking _Director_ — and still working in the field. Never enough, isn’t it. “And nobody knows you took part in my fall—”

“Tosha…”

“No, listen to me. You and I can even think on the excuses you’d make for your bosses. Keeping an eye on me again. I am still a threat, still have my connections, still powerful. You were my right— _left_ hand. Why would I not want you back if I don’t suspect you of anything?”

“Tosha.”

It is arresting, that tone.

Anton sighs and untangles himself from Vitya and hugs a pillow. “There is something in my jacket. If you would be so kind to take it out…” That thing is a much higher risk than offering a job, but what does he have to lose?

Everything.

Might as well end it here and now, then.

He closes his eyes, hugging the pillow that smells of green tea, listens carefully to Vitya’s movements. A rustle of things being picked from the floor and put on a chair (folded carefully). Creak of leather.

The rustle of paper.

A click when Vitya turns on the bedside lamp.

Anton presses his face into the pillow even more, turns it away from the light.

Silence.

“Tosha.”

It is a non-tone, a lack of any emotion in Vitya’s voice — and that is telling more than anything.

Anton licks his lips. His back is cold. “I got it a week before the arrest. Carrying it with myself everywhere. Thinking about it all the time… I had suspicions about you, of course — but it was not why I hesitated, why I… I thought you wouldn’t…” Such a good explanation, Anton, well done.

He waits for Vitya’s answer, staring into the darkness, the lamp light only thickening the shadows.

“Tosha.” Vitya sounds strangled, low. “We can’t. _I_ can’t.”

“Can’t — or don’t want it?”

“Tosha…”

He rolls around to face Vitya — standing there, perfect and flawed, pale like a statue. His fist closed and pressed to his chest.

“No. Just say it. Forget about the Bureau, the gangs, _everything_ , and tell me whether you want it. Because I want it.” He moves to the edge of the bed and gets up and covers Vitya’s fist with his hand, looking up.

Vitya’s eyes are wet.

“I want it,” he repeats quietly. “I wanted it then, and I want it now.”

“Fours years, Tosha.”

“So what?”

“I’ve changed.”

“So _what_? I didn’t ask you to never change. It is a work, but you and I are notorious workaholics, aren’t we.” He touches Viktor’s cheek with his free hand, feeling the grain of stubble. “Just tell me. I’m not waiting for a particular answer. Throw it out if you don’t want it, I won’t judge you and won’t hold a grudge. Tell me if you need time to think, if you need space — I will leave, right this moment if you need me to. You have a  _choice_ , Vitya. You always have, with me.”

Vitya’s eyes dart to the side, and up, and to another side — but they are pools of tears. He presses his fist tighter. “I want it. Please. But I don’t know…”

“Shh. Don’t think about it now. We’ll think it through later. In the morning. For now…”

He imagined this, before. How it might go, what he would say in different scenarios.

But it is this: him stroking Vitya’s wet cheek, and Vitya opening his fist to reveal a simple metal band, and Anton taking it and placing it on Vitya’s finger, and kissing Vitya because it’s so easy.

It’s so easy.


End file.
